Project Mayhem
by Triest Morgan
Summary: When your left all alone, who is there to share in the fun?
1. Chapter 1

Chapter One

I am not amused.

My face, for a better lack of words, is horribly disfigured. The only person who wanted to be close to me, even if it was a twisted version of love, has left me, unable to cope with what I have done. The authorities didn't find my actions very amusing either. After I was released from intensive care they had a few questions, and I had too many answers for my own good. As previously stated I am not amused.

The human body is capable of all kinds of self inflicted wounds. The amount of damage one can survive is simply amazing. Now the amount of psychological damage one can take, in contrast, is very minimal. My disfiguring injury was easy to get over. The sad realization that I was the direct cause of it, was not. I blew up the biggest credit card companies headquarters and didn't feel an ounce of regret, I lost the one woman who wanted me and I felt nothing. I lose half of my face by simply pulling the trigger and I still feel it was necessary.

The only regret? I miss Tyler Durden.

I have been locked in a padded room for the last nine months. I call it my womb. Today I am going to walk out of this cell and feel the fresh air against my face. I am to be born today.

The judge felt I had a severe break from reality and with my self inflicted wound, which he mistook for an attempt on my life, went easy on me. What he didn't know was that I didn't try to kill myself I just tried to kill a part of me. He sentenced me to nine months of psychiatric evaluation and incarceration. Since Tyler was gone, I received a clean bill of mental health when my evaluation came up.

You may be asking yourself what has become of my minions, my little space monkeys if you will. They disappeared. I can only assume that Tyler had given them specific orders that upon his incarceration they would execute. Maybe they went underground, went into hiding. They still could be out there causing mayhem. I find it hard to believe that after their awakening, after Tyler gave them a reason to live, they would go quietly back to their nine to fives. Either way they have not contacted me. As far as I am concerned that is for the best.

Nine months of talking to only psychiatrists will give you perspective on the choices you have made. I realized that project mayhem was too big for one man to lead. Only if everyone acted on their own wishes and whims would true anarchy be achieved. What is organized anarchy but a form of government. That just defeats the purpose.

No, I like to think of them out there, causing damage to society one brick at a time. Spreading their disease through the system and killing the American dream one day at a time, one life at a time. But then again, that could be wishful thinking.

Tyler Durden. Tyler Durden. He is all could think about while I was inside. I was Tyler Durden. Or was I just his whiny alter ego? Inside I had all the urges he had, all the dreams he had. Hell I had even shaved my head like he had. But I lacked his spirit. I know what your thinking, his spirit was my spirit yada yada. But the fact of the matter is I can't seem to function like he functioned. I lived in that run down house in the middle of the slums, but he lead me there. I hated my apartment and felt like it was a prison, but he freed me. I loathed my job, my coworkers and my boss, but he gave me cause to take action. I was nothing without Tyler, every step or action I took was directly influenced by his sick mind. Without him, I felt without direction. Hell, maybe I was just a space monkey myself.

I was his sidekick. It was his vision I lived. Maybe I was his alter ego. Without his influence, when I step out into the sun once again, what do I do. Ill be in a different kind of prison then.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter Two

I tried to find a home for myself. Something that would equally make me feel no attachment and disdain. I failed. Everyplace I looked seemed to be too good, or not good enough. Try as I could I just couldn't rid myself of standards. I needed Tyler to just tell me what would be right. Come to think of it, I am not sure other than pulling that trigger I had ever thought for myself ever.

I spent the second week of freedom in the hospital. I told them I was a victim of a hit and run. In truth I picked a fight with a fairly lanky young man at a bar. He looked easy enough, something small to get me back in the swing of things, but this young man was apparently charismatic as hell because he was friends with half the bar. When I asked him the time and then punched him in the neck as soon as he looked at his watch, those aforementioned friends quickly jumped to his defense. While I lay on top of a shattered barstool, getting the shit kicked out of me I briefly felt whole again. That hole in me filled, just for a fleeting moment. I felt free.

Don't get all emotional or anything but lying in that hospital bed I felt more alone than I had ever felt in the nut house. I didn't have anyone to share my night with, no one to understand how I felt. I missed Tyler.

Tyler once told me you have to lose everything in order to be free. Everything and everyone you cared about had to be washed away and you had to start from scratch to be completely free. I thought I had reached rock bottom before, I was wrong. If being free felt like this, then freedom sucked.

It is surprisingly easy to acquire a gun in the United States. An ex-mental patient with a history of violent anti-social behavior can just walk into any gun show in America and purchase one. No background check, no waiting period, just cash and a smile.

My plan was not human sacrifice that had already been done. I wanted to make new strides not repeat the footsteps Tyler had already tread. The goal was simple enough. I was going to kidnap the governor and make him write a confession of every dirty deed he had done. Then simply mail the confession to every newspaper in the state. CNN would have a field day and the corrupt son of a bitch would be forced to step down in disgrace.

I told the hospital I had fallen down my steps. I don't think they bought it. I knew my plan had gone wrong when the Governor's body guards had me pinned to the ground and my gun was used to pistol whip me. Luckily they just broke my arms and threw me into the street. Apparently they didn't want attention, so they thought a lesson would do the trick.

How embarrassing.

A month later my arms had healed and I was able to redouble my efforts. This time I thought that stealing the figures from my old job and releasing them to the press would be an inspired way of discrediting a major automobile company and getting some confidence to boot.

I had purchased another gun, this time something lighter, so if I was pistol whipped with it, I wouldn't lose consciousness right away.

My plan actually went smoothly. I walked right in past the security guard, who apparently had not gotten the memo that I no longer worked there, and on into the records room. I grabbed what I wanted and left before anyone noticed anything at all.

My plan of course failed. I overestimated the newspapers willingness to print the truth. Apparently they weren't interested in any information that would discredit such a respectable American company, and was sure that any information I had was purely fabricated. Thanks for voting republican.

The newspapers only print the information that think will sell papers, as long as it doesn't step on the toes of any one which feeds them millions a year in advertising fees for using their newspaper. In fact, the stories you see about recalls and consumer related deaths or injuries always seems to have a bright spin to it and paints the victim as an imbecile who shouldn't even own an electric razor for fear of slashing his own throat with it somehow.

I realized that the people printing the news, the one who should be the most unbiased, were the most. Like any good political lobbyist knows, you don't bite the hand that feeds. The more money you pump into someone's pockets, the more likely they are willing to protect that income. So if you print an article that would in all likelihood ruin a company that gives you X amount of money each year so you can have that second house in the Hamptons, would you print it?

I was currently squatting in Marla's old apartment. It seems Tyler had paid her rent for three years so, hell in theory it was mine anyways. I couldn't do anything right. I couldn't stand being alone. I couldn't be Tyler. If couldn't be that, then why try living right?

When I pulled the trigger this time, I hesitated at the last second. I don't now why. But in doing so, I blew out the other side of my face. I wasn't dead but I would have a matching scar now. This time I didn't go to the hospital.

When I awoke I lay on the floor, my recently blown apart face stuck to the carpet. When I pulled myself up off the floor, my face kind of stuck for a moment then ripped away in a bloody, carpet ridden chunk. I tongued the inside of my face, feeling the recently clotted rip along the length of my face. I was surprised to hear a voice.

"You can't do anything right, can you?"

Before I even turned to look, a smile had broken across my face, causing fresh blood to pump down onto my shirt. The voice belonged to Tyler. Tyler be thy name, in Tyler we trust. My effect to his cause. Things were looking up.


End file.
